Let's Misbehave: Roaring Twenties Romances, #4

By Romy Sommer

RT Book Reviews: "Let's Misbehave is a romp through 1920s England that is sure to delight."

 

His is a life of duty and tradition, hers is the pursuit of pleasure...
 
When wild child and dedicated Flapper Gabrielle discovers the adventurous spirit within staid aristocrat Sebastian, she seduces him into a last fling before he settles for a loveless marriage. But as the Twenties roar to their conclusion, is their brief affair doomed before it even begins?

 

Warning: Contains content intended for an adult audience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Romy Sommer
• Release date: Apr 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497708280

Romy Sommer

2016 Finalist for the Romance Writers of America® RITA Award for Best Mid-Length Contemporary Romance for 'Not a Fairy Tale'. By day Romy has a not-as-glamorous-as-you-think job making television commercials, but at night she gets to escape to fantasy worlds and write Happy Ever Afters - what could be more perfect? Romy is a single mom to two little princesses, lives in sunny South Africa, and is a founder and the first Chairperson of ROSA (Romance writers Organisation of SA).

Book preview

Chapter One

The vibrant, jazzy notes of percussion instruments drifted up towards the high ceiling, mingling with the swirling smoke and the sound of voices.

Gabrielle stepped up to the microphone and projected her voice above the music.

She loved this song. It was a lively number, written by the young American composer Cole Porter. She had made it her anthem and sang it at the beginning of every evening. Nothing brought the dancers to their feet and started the champagne flowing like Let’s Misbehave.

"There’s something wild about you, child,

That’s so contagious

Let’s be outrageous—let’s misbehave!"

Her voice swelled, rising above the clamour of the nightclub. The music pumped through her, inspiring her, daring her.

Sebastian entered the nightclub surrounded by a knot of his friends. The music was loud, the din of voices even louder, but he was arrested by the quality of the singer’s voice, an hypnotic voice, superbly controlled and self-assured. As they jostled through the writhing crowd to their table, he strained for a glimpse of the songbird.

She was beautiful, in the gamine way currently fashionable. She wore her dark hair short and straight in a severe Eton crop. Her pale silver shift dress, soft and loose and barely covering her knees, made her figure appear straight as a board. The style was modern, and not at all to his taste. He preferred curves to this current tendency towards boyishness among women. But there was something arresting about the waif-like figure, a vitality that flowed from her, the same quality that lifted her voice over the noise of the crowd.

The waiter seated them in a plush booth, and served champagne while Sebastian took stock of his surroundings. He would never have chosen this as the venue for his bachelor’s party, but his old Cambridge friends had insisted. Ornate gilded Corinthian columns rose to the ceiling, where an enormous gold chandelier cast bright electric light over the dancers. Despite the light and space, the suffocating air seemed to press down on him.

He had visited clubs in his Cambridge days, but the frenetic air of this nightclub seemed tinged with desperation. As the decade rushed headlong towards its finale, his generation grew increasingly feverish. It didn’t help that he’d begun to feel increasingly feverish too.

The song changed, swinging into another energetic number.

"Isn’t this joint just it?" Pinkie called out above the noise. His friend had earned the nickname in their school days for being able to twist even the dour matron around his little finger. He no longer had the endearing schoolboy looks, his face turned florid from drink, but he still had the charm. And the arrogance.

They swigged back the champagne, flowing like water tonight, and watched the dancers gyrating on the dance floor. The music flowed seamlessly from one song into another. Sebastian did not often listen to jazz, but he had to admit he liked it. His foot tapped an involuntary rhythm beneath the table.

The bewitching voice, rising cool and clear over the din, soothed him. Or maybe it was the champagne.

When the set finally ended and another band took their places on the bandstand, Pinkie stood, waving his arms wildly over the heads of the crowd. Over here.

The songbird threaded her way through the crowd towards their table. Alistair, dah-ling! What a surprise to see you here.

Sebastian wondered if he was the only one to catch her dry tone.

I want you to meet my old university chums. Pinkie wrapped a possessive arm around her shoulders, drawing her close as he introduced everyone around the table. A little too close, if the narrowing of her eyes was anything to go by.

Gabrielle. The exotic name suited her. She looked Sebastian up and down, and he was surprised at the shrewd intelligence in her dark, kohl-lined eyes. So she was more than a pretty face.

Seb is about to be married, Pinkie said. He’s the reason we’re celebrating tonight. Not that Pinkie ever needed a reason to celebrate.

One last fling, eh, old boy? Though he spoke to Sebastian, Pinkie’s gaze remained fixed on Gabrielle’s breasts. She ignored him.

Congratulations. Her voice was soft as silk, but Sebastian sensed a hard edge beneath it. Every word seemed mocking. Definitely not his type of woman. He preferred them soft and agreeable. Feminine.

He enjoyed a fleeting moment of amusement, though, when Gabrielle pulled away from Pinkie to reach out to a debonair older gentleman in top hat and tails passing by.

Later, Alistair. She blew Pinkie a kiss as she drifted away on the stranger’s arm, coquettishly sliding a hand around the newcomer’s waist.

Throughout the evening, Sebastian caught glimpses of the sleek dark head, dipping and weaving gracefully between the dancers on the floor. Though a few of his friends danced, he did not.

His gaze drifted across the room as he half- listened to Pinkie telling an involved joke, the punch line of which eluded him. Out on the dance floor he spotted Gabrielle. Her movements were lithe, her limbs light as air, as she twirled among the other dancers. There was something ethereal about her, as though she were a butterfly, or as intangible as a dust mote.

An unfamiliar tension grew inside him, and he recognised it as desire. He shook his head, contemptuous at himself. He did not lust after strange women.

Not that he was a complete prude, either. He had known a few women in his wild younger days at university, had honed his skills with women exactly like Gabrielle, women who were easy on the eye and easy on the heart.

But those days were far behind him. In a couple of weeks, he would be married to a very sensible, very suitable young lady. He would never need to look at another woman with a pretty thing like Lilly at his side.

In time, he hoped he would learn to love her, too.

Deliberately, he turned his attention away from the dance floor and back to his friends. He sipped at the golden bubbles of his champagne and the knot in his stomach slowly unclenched. He even laughed at Pinkie’s next joke. Then a hand on his shoulder intruded. A slight hand, pale as marble, which woke all his dulled senses with nothing more than the most fleeting touch.

Would the guest of honour care to dance?

No woman had ever asked him to dance before.

He looked up into Gabrielle’s dark eyes. She was smiling, no longer coquettish, but with a lively warmth—and she was sober, he realised. More sober than anyone else in the room, himself included.

Thank you. It wasn’t what he meant to say. Perhaps the champagne had affected him more than he realised.

He rose and took her arm, guiding her back to the dance floor. Up close, her fragrance surprised him, soft and delicate as a budding rose, with none of the brashness he’d expected.

The music was softer now and it was only couples dancing together now beneath the chandelier’s sparkling light. She turned into his arms, the movement naturally graceful, and swayed against him as they moved into the steps of the Foxtrot. She was as light on her feet as she appeared.

You dance well, she said, looking up at him through long